


The secret patient

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Complete, Doctor/Patient, Espionage, Frottage, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Oral Sex, POV first person ONLY FOR FLASHBACKS, Spies & Secret Agents, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-02-08 19:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1953210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WWII, the Italian campaign. Dr. John Watson is left behind at a lonely chapel with a mysterious patient who cannot be evacuated with the rest of the field hospital, due to his injuries. John is fascinated by the man and his tales...or perhaps there is more to it than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lifespossible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifespossible/gifts).



> Written for the AU exchangelock--apologies that it is late ~~and not quite done. The ending is already written, though, so it should all be up ASAP.~~ **EDIT:** All done now!! This started out as a simple one-shot (based very, like extremely, loosely on The English Patient) and got completely out of hand.

_I glanced about the darkened farmyard from my position behind a partially tumbled hayrick. I had been waiting for nearly an hour and had seen no sign of life anywhere in the surrounding woods._

_It was dark and, for the moment, overcast. The rolling countryside of the region, so much of which had been stripped bare by German Panzer divisions, provided little cover. The stand of trees to the east of the small property I’d found was the first safe spot I’d come upon in days, since escaping from Fossoli._

_I tugged up the collar of the old woollen overcoat I had stolen. It was a cool evening for all that it was May. This thought gave me pause as I tried to count the days since I had been betrayed and captured. It would be very soon, if my calculations were correct — the offensive in France, upon which so much now depended, would begin in a matter of days._

_I could only hope my message had been received in time._

_Surveying my surroundings once more, I turned my attention to the small wooden outbuilding ahead of me. The stone cottage at the centre of the farmyard was empty, by all appearances, but with the enemy line so nearby I could not afford to take chances. Better luck to be had with the pig barn, at least for tonight._

_Sherlock Holmes, sleeping in a pig barn. That would amuse my brother no end._

_I shifted carefully, mindful of my injuries, and dropped as low as I could before running for cover. The ground was muddy; I slipped twice but managed to avoid falling._

_I slipped through the barn doors before the moon peeked back out from behind the clouds._

_Assessing the empty shelter, I was grateful there was no sign whatsoever of human activity. The animals also had long since gone, though their essence lingered in the dirt floor. I was too tired to care and sank gratefully to the ground. There was a trough in the corner, though. Above it was a pump; with any kind of luck, it would feed directly from a well. I was far too weak to consider that, however._

_My side was throbbing — I pressed a hand to broken ribs and allowed myself to sink into sleep. It had been a long journey and I had much further to go._


	2. Chapter 2

“How is he tonight?” the Canadian nurse asked, her voice hushed.

Captain John Watson turned his attention to the pretty redhead at the foot of the mobile hospital bed he’d taken to sitting beside during quiet moments. Her name was Margaret, and she came from a small town in Saskatchewan. She was often his only real company through long nights at the Cappella di Santa Domenica.

It was a strange place for a field hospital, though John knew that was most often the case. The abandoned chapel was missing its windows — save for one of exquisite medieval stained glass, which John hoped would somehow survive the war — and there was a large hole in the roof over the altar. Still, the small building of cinnamon-coloured stone, pockmarked by shells though it was, provided a relatively safe place to care for the wounded.

The Eighth British army, which included the 1st Canadian corps along with their medical personnel, continued progress north through Italy. They were engaged now in an attempt on the monastery at Cassino. If all went well, the Canadians — to whom John had been attached after one of their surgeons was killed — would be sent out for rest. The hospital would be moved and the patients evacuated.

“He’s restless,” John answered Margaret simply. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “But I think his pain may be a bit better.”

“Oh, I’m so glad,” Margaret said. She looked down at the man in the bed beside John. “It’s such a shame…”

“It is,” John agreed tightly. They had very little time before all the patients would need to be moved, and John wasn’t at all certain this young man would survive the trip.

“He talks in his sleep, doesn’t he?”

“Sometimes.” John could not tell her how much he had come to love the sound of the man’s voice. How the elegant softness of the accent and the warm, whiskey-soaked timbre of the rich baritone drew him in. The voice comforted John, when by all rights it was he, as the doctor, who ought to be doing the comforting.

Margaret moved around the bed and studied their patient for a moment. “What does he talk about? Has he said anything about who he is?”

“I think his name is Holmes, although he’s muttered something that sounded like Kovács when he wasn’t speaking in English. He talks about…sometimes it’s the past, I think,” John admitted. “Old friends, perhaps his days at school. And then other times it sounds as though he’s recounting an escape.”

“An escape?” Margaret looked intrigued. “Who from?”

“The Germans.”

“Is he…”

“I don’t think he’s Jewish, no,” John replied, feeling a bit sheepish. He hadn’t really taken a good look or anything, but the patient’s clothing had been mostly burned or in tatters when he was brought in — he’d been naked enough for John to know he wasn’t circumcised.

“Where did he come from, do you suppose?” Margaret wondered aloud, reaching down to brush a dark ringlet from the young man’s face.

“Dunno,” John shrugged. “Unfortunately, there is little more we can do for him but wait and hope.”

“You’re certain we can’t move him?”

John shook his head. “The swelling on his spine could get worse; he could be permanently paralyzed.”

“And the burns?”

“They’re bad, but localized. They should heal, with time. Honestly, though, I don’t know how he survived getting here with the broken ribs and the bleeding from his other injuries.”

“Such a shame,” Margaret repeated. She smiled at John. “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

Margaret departed the shrine to the Blessed Virgin, which John had confiscated for their special patient. With no papers, and with the unusual circumstances under which he had been brought to them, John’s superiors had deemed it best to keep the man separate from the rest of the ward — somewhere he could be carefully watched. The small alcove at the far end of the main sanctuary seemed the most logical spot.

The shrine was as out of use as the rest of the chapel, as most of the village’s inhabitants had left many weeks before. Still, there were candles ready for lighting. The room had been elaborately painted, probably in the Middle Ages. Though he was not a religious man, John found the naïve decoration featuring scenes from Mary’s life somewhat restful.

There was a muffled moan from the bed. John waited to see if Holmes — if that was indeed his name — would finally awaken. Instead, the man sighed and his head lolled back to one side.

John watched him in silence and waited.

______________________________

**_Budapest, May 1944_ **

_“What is your name?” The German officer (early forties, hypertensive, alcoholic, at least one parent not of pure “Aryan” descent) enquired in Hungarian as he paced in front of the space where I had been chained._

_“László Kovács.”_

_“It is not. You are not Hungarian.” The officer (a colonel according to his insignia and called “Fuchs” by one of the two young men who’d been tasked with my torture) wore the black uniform of Hitler’s Schutzstaffel. He removed his gloves as he spoke again, in English. “Tell me where you really come from.”_

_“I am a citizen of Debrecen,” I replied, refusing to be shaken from speaking Hungarian. “Born to István and Erzsébet Kovács …”_

_“You are an English spy!”_

_“No…”_

_“YES! Have you not suffered enough?” Colonel Fuchs bent double to place his face directly in front of my own. “Do you wish this to continue?”_

_I stared into the remorseless dark eyes. Fuchs was searching for any sign of weakness; I was happy to oblige. My lip trembled and a tear slipped free from one swollen eye. “I am László Kovács, of Debrecen. I travelled to Budapest to find my sister. She went missing in April…”_

_“ENOUGH!” Fuchs roared. He strode to the far side of the small, grey cell. He nodded at the taller of the two soldiers who waited in bloodied shirtsleeves. “Again.”_

__________________________________________________

John jolted awake at the shout erupting from his patient. He mentally cursed himself for having dozed off, jumping a little when the young man’s eyes suddenly snapped open.

“Hol vagyok?”

“Sorry, I-I don’t understand…”

The young man blinked several times. “You are English.”

“I am, yeah. Are you?”

There was a long pause — John assumed his patient was gauging the risks of making such an admission. “It’s okay. You’re safe here. This is an allied field hospital.”

The young man searched his face for a moment. Apparently satisfied, he finally answered, “Yes. I’m English.”

“What unit are you with?”

“Unit? I’m not a soldier.”

“Then what the hell are you doing in a war zone on your own?”

“Where am I?” the patient deflected.

“Near Cassino.”

The young man seemed to digest this for a moment before turning what had to be the clearest turquoise eyes John had ever seen back in his direction.

“You are my doctor. Surgeon? Late-twenties. Hampshire.”

John stared, shocked by the rapid-fire biographical sketch. “I am a surgeon, yes. From Aldershot.” He couldn’t help but smile. “I’m stationed with the Canadians at the moment, though they’re going to be pulling out soon.”

“How did I get here?”

“A farmer and his son brought you in. They said they found you several miles away.” John cocked his head. “You were just outside a small barn or building that had caught fire after the area was shelled. You’re lucky they found us first. They were going to leave you with any medical personnel they could find, and they started out on the other side of the German li —“ John frowned at the look of on his patient’s face. “Is something wrong? Are you…in pain?”

“I think you know that is unlikely, aside from the pain on my face. I can’t move.”

John sagged. “I’m sorry. It’s what I feared. The men who brought you in said you were unable to move when they found you. I cannot find any evidence of permanent damage to the spine itself. What I suspect is that there is swelling putting pressure on the spinal cord…”

“Will it improve?”

“I wish I could tell you. We simply don’t have the equipment here to be sure.”

His patient gave another deep sigh. “What else?”

“You’ve sustained fairly severe burns on your left side. You also have several other injuries — punctures, lacerations, broken ribs…and you’re missing three toenails.”

The young man snorted in derision. “The SS are unimaginative when it comes to torture.”

“Torture? The SS?” John’s eyes narrowed. “Who _are_ you?”

His patient regarded him calmly. “No one of consequence. But what may I call you, doctor?”

“Watson. John Watson.”

“Well, then, Dr. Watson. I assume the pain on my face is from burns there as well. Might I beg for some kind of relief?”

“Of course. I’m sorry.” John retrieved a syringe and an ampoule of morphine from the tray near the bed. He brushed the thin blanket draped over the dampened bandages they’d applied to the man’s burns and located a vein. “I should have offered sooner.”

“S’fine,” his patient said wearily. He closed his eyes as the opiate began to do its work.

“What is your name?”

“S’not important.”

“What can I call you?”

“Sherlock. Call me Sherlock.”

___________________________________

**_Budapest, May 1944_ **

_I jolted awake as the ice water doused my matted, bloody hair. I lifted my head slowly and metallic-tinged rivulets ran over my face, filling the mouth I could no longer close as I needed it to breathe (they had long since broken my nose). With one good eye, I could see that Fuchs had departed the claustrophobic holding cell once more._

_“Awake!” One of the two men left to guard me — Neumann — stood nearby, holding a bucket. Clearly they were not going to allow me to sleep, even in their commander’s absence._

_Well, if I couldn’t get any rest…_

_“When?” I asked in German._

_Neumann looked puzzled. “What?”_

_“When did you start sleeping with her?”_

_Neumann’s face mottled. “Sleeping with whom?”_

_“The woman whose picture you keep pinned inside your breast pocket.”_

_Neumann’s hand lifted reflexively, but he caught himself just before laying fingers over the indicated shirt pocket and confirming my assertion._

_“What are you talking about?” He glanced nervously at the second guard — Müller — now seated on a wooden chair and leaning against the wall near the door with his arms crossed. “What woman are you referring to? When would I have time…?”_

_“Not often, of course,” I supplied smoothly. “You were both in Berlin just two days ago, with Fuchs. You saw her then.”_

_Neumann dropped the bucket and moved to strike him again and Sherlock pounced._

_“Does he know?” I asked calmly, nodding at Müller._

_Müller let the front legs of the chair drop to the floor instantly. Neumann turned to face him as he stood, looking bewildered. “Know what? What has this to do with me?”_

_“He’s sleeping with your fiancée,” I said blandly. Statistically, it was very likely, based on the very faint traces of one perfume I had detected lingering on the uniforms of both of the young soldiers, and given that they both came from the same small town and might be likely to know many of the same people. “She’s pregnant with his child.” This was a shot in the dark, but a good one._

_Neumann’s blow landed solidly against my already fractured right cheekbone, causing my head to snap to the side. I rested there, head lolling, watching the scene unfold out of the corner of my eye._

_“He’s lying!”_

_Neumann waved his arms wildly as Müller advanced, fists clenched. He reached for Neumann, who flinched expecting a blow. Instead, Müller’s fingers found the button on his shirt pocket and undid it. He lifted the placket and saw evidence of the pin inside the pocket. He cocked his head as he met Neumann’s eyes once more._

_“Is he?”_

_Neumann threw the first punch, but it mattered very little to me. I was focussed on retrieving the small skull head pin that had been knocked from Fuchs’ uniform before he left. I curled my toes around it and slid it toward me._

_The two grunting Nazis continued their battle, too concerned with jealous rage and grappling with one another to be bothered about their prisoner._

_My arms were chained at my sides, but they had left enough slack for me to drop to one knee, which I did. Nearly dislocating my shoulder, I was just able to retrieve the key with my right hand._

_I let myself go slack in my restraints as Fuchs burst into the interrogation room with three more officers. Shouting ensued; Neumann and Müller were pulled apart and removed._

_Fuchs approached me and tugged at my hair until I lifted my head._

_“Still alive, are you?”_

_I smiled at him._

_Fuchs expression darkened and he released me. “You!” he shouted at one of the junior officers who’d come in with him. “Stay outside the door. And make sure he stays awake!”_

_The door closed and I was alone. I knew I would have at least a few minutes before the guard at the door came in to check on me._

_It was time to go._


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re awake.”

John entered the shrine to find Sherlock waiting for him.

“I was woken by a pleasant young nurse who brought me tapioca pudding.”

“Margaret,” John said, grinning.

“She’s very attractive.”

John settled himself onto the stool beside Sherlock’s bed. “Yes, Margaret is lovely.”

“And single.”

“Well, yes, I suppose she is.”

“Like you.”

John shrugged, setting out the supplies he would need. “I am now, yes.”

“There was someone back home, but…you didn’t feel it was right to ask her to wait for you.”

“Spot on.” John shook his head. “We parted as friends.”

“I see. And Margaret?”

“What about her?”

“No possibility of a romance there?”

John frowned. “I haven’t considered it. We have a lot of work to do, and she is a colleague.”

“Of course. Quite right. Very professional.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said swiftly.

“What about you?” John asked.

“What about me?”

“Do you have a wife or a girlfriend waiting for you?”

Sherlock winced. “Not really my area.”

“Oh,” John breathed, hands halting in the middle of preparing the sterile solution for the bandages. He peered at Sherlock, not wanting to leap to any conclusions but somehow desperate to know. “Right. So…”

“Soooo…” Sherlock interjected, quickly diverting the topic. “To what do I owe the honour of your visit? Bit early for you — don’t you usually come in once the other patients are sleeping?”

“Uh, right, well.” John cleared his throat and resumed his task. “There aren’t many of them left,” he admitted, still a bit flustered. “Most of them have been evacuated. You may have noticed the traffic the last few hours.”

“I did, yes.”

“And your dressings need changing.”

“I see.”

John began to roll back the first of the bandages covering Sherlock’s forehead.

“So how did you escape?”

“Hmmm?”

“The skull pin. How did that get you out of your cell?”

“Oh! That. Yes.”

“Come on,” John urged. “This is going to take some time and it’s not going to be pleasant.”

“Well, the pin I used to unlock my shackles.”

“And how did you escape the building?”

“A classic diversion,” Sherlock replied, hissing as the bandage tugged at the edge of the burn.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered.

“No,” Sherlock grunted. “Continue.”

“This diversion?”

“Ah — shouted for help. Drew the guard from the door into the cell and despatched him.”

“Despatched?”

“Means exactly what you think,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

John concentrated on the bandages and being as careful as possible. He wanted to minimize the scarring as much as he was able. Sherlock was a very handsome man…

John flinched. _Where had that come from_?

“And then what?”

“Fuchs was busy disciplining his men so I knew the corridor would be empty. When I had been brought in, I had taken note of a garbage chute toward the far end of the wing where I was being held. I wound up in the basement. Borrowed some clothes from an old locker — I presume they belonged to the cleaning staff. And voila! I walked out of the building, with at least thirty minutes before I was missed.”

“How could you have been so sure?”

“Like I said: The SS are not very imaginative, once you know their habits.”

“And what did they want you for?”

“You’re a clever man. You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Give me a hint?”

Sherlock sighed as John began the process of replacing the bandages. “Information, obviously. They knew I wouldn’t have risked such a journey without good cause. They assumed there must be a secret plan, of which they believed I had knowledge.”

“And do you?”

“I will say only that I was aware of a man who did. And he should not have.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“If you think we ought to win the war, then yes.”

“Where were you being held?”

“Budapest.”

“That explains the language. I assume it was Hungarian I’ve heard?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Probably, yes.”

“And some French.”

Sherlock did not reply, but closed his eyes.

“And …was it Russian?”

“Look, Dr. Watson…”

“My name is John.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and regarded his companion with curiosity. John stared right back.

“My name is John,” he repeated.

“John.”

“Yes.” John tried to suppress a shiver at the sound of his name on Sherlock’s tongue. God, what was wrong with him?

He cleared his throat again and tugged the blanket aside to begin working on the bandages covering Sherlock’s chest. “So how did you manage to get to Italy?”

“It isn’t a very interesting story.”

“Humour me.”

Sherlock sighed again. “Well, if you must know, it began with coffee and goats…”

________________________________

**_Budapest, May 1944_ **

_I walked slowly as I crossed the bridge over the Danube. A man in haste always draws attention, as does a man with a limp or other injury. I straightened my posture as well as I was able and made sure not to favour my injured foot. The damage to my face was a problem; I had cleaned up some (and reset my nose), but I kept my head down and my collar up, to hide as much of it as I could._

_There was very little time to get my message to London._

_A former member of the French resistance somehow had gained access to information that only a handful of allied leaders ought to have known. It was an extraordinary breach that had seemed impossible. Human nature, though, is difficult to fully predict, even by those of us who make it our business to do so._

_I had intercepted his message to his German masters without his knowledge, but had been unable to eliminate him in Brussels. I had to prevent him from delivering the information in person._

_His path was indirect — I had expected him to report directly to Berlin, but instead found myself on the Austria-Hungary border._

_I will not relate the details of my pursuit, nor of the error that resulted in my arrest. The double agent’s death will not haunt me, however my own failure to avoid capture will. My only consolation was that he had been prevented from delivering his intelligence, and I had managed to extract from him the name of his source._

_Having slipped free of the SS, my primary concern was to relay this information to allied headquarters before the traitor could attempt another leak._

_I had one possible contact available to me in Budapest — a former professor of literature who now worked for the Russians. He’d gone somewhat quiet since theGerman occupation in March, but a handful of messages had still come through. The Russians had provided the SOE with some very useful intelligence before my previous Hungarian mission._

_His last known address was on a quiet street, not far from the former Jewish ghetto. I made my way there, only vaguely becoming aware that I was bleeding again._

_I arrived at the address to discover the building boarded up. The only thing still open on the street was a small café on the corner. It was an appealing possibility — I had a small amount of cash from the pocket of my stolen coat and I was as much in need of food as I was information._

_The café was mostly empty, so I seated myself near the window. I ordered a good strong coffee and the offered mézes krémes (honey cake)._

_“It has been some time since I was home,” I told the old man who brought me my food._

_He nodded at me thoughtfully, taking in my battered face. “It is not safe here anymore.”_

_“No. I fear my friend may have had to leave.”_

_“Many have left since the Germans came. Those who had somewhere to go outside the city left as soon as they were able.”_

_“Perhaps you might know what has happened to my friend?” I asked hopefully._

_“Who is your friend?”_

_“Dr. Tamás Almássy.”_

_“From the university? He left many months ago.”_

_“I see. Do you know where I might find him?”_

_“He has gone to his brother, who raises goats just outside the city.”_

_He wrote the direction on a slip of paper for me. I thanked him and rushed to finish my small repast. I walked as far as I could and then took a bus to the edge of the city. After another mile or so on foot, I came to the Almássy farm. There was little left of their livelihood, save for two goats in the front pen._

_I approached the small cottage carefully, and with good reason. I could see someone hovering in the window. I called out a greeting using an older code phrase I hoped would still be recognized. Fortunately, the shutter closed and the door opened instead. Within minutes, I was seated inside with Tamás._

_He was a pleasant man, nervous but resolute. He led me down into the cellar where he had his transmitter and an encryption device. I crafted my message, and provided the destination and key for Allied decryption. I left the coding to Tamás — it had been some time since I had seen the Russian variant on the Enigma machine._

_We had only just completed our task and returned to the kitchen when there was a panicked arrival at the door. A girl, about 12, reported to Tamás that the Germans had just arrived at her family’s farm nearby. Her father — long since suspicious of Tamás — had seen me and suspected I might be of interest to the SS. We were betrayed._

_Tamás took only what was necessary and we departed for the hills nearby. His life was of greater importance than my own, so I elected to leave him. He had an escape route already planned and I would only slow his progress and put him at greater risk._

_We parted, Tamás heading in the direction of Ukraine while I made for Croatia. I travelled as quickly as I could. By nightfall, however, my injuries had so weakened me that I could not escape the dogs that were set upon me._

_I was taken._

_I prepared myself mentally to be returned to Fuchs and his tender mercies, but was surprised when I was delivered to the train station. I was shoved into a cattle car packed with prisoners. They were Romani, on their way — as I now was — to a prison camp in Italy._

_______________________________

“You’re lucky to be alive,” John said.

“Lucky?” Sherlock grimaced. “Well, I suppose I am.”

John continued with changing his dressings.

“Isn’t this something a nurse would do?” Sherlock drawled.

“Probably, but I don’t want to miss out on any of your stories.”

“They’re not that interesting. Not to a doctor who went to war.”

“Just doing my duty.”

“You could have done your duty in a military hospital in the English countryside.”

“No, I couldn’t,” John said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “No, you couldn’t. One rarely sees artillery fire in Sussex.”

John’s mouth tightened. “What are you suggesting? That I volunteered to do my part to defeat a madman for the thrill of it?”

“Well, that certainly didn’t hurt,” Sherlock offered, watching John carefully.

John let that settle for a moment, refusing to meet Sherlock’s knowing gaze. He’d never told anyone about the rush he felt in dangerous situations. He’d hardly even admitted it to himself.

“You’re one to talk,” he deflected finally. He finished with the wrap on his patient’s abdomen and moved the sheet aside to begin work on the bandages covering Sherlock’s hip and thigh. “I’m not the one who’s —” John glanced around him before finishing in hushed tones. “Who’s a _spy_.”

Sherlock smirked at him. “It’s true; I have put myself in life-threatening situations, all for the sake of solving a puzzle. You see, I require constant stimulation or my brain simply rots. The bigger the curiosity the better. Espionage has been very…interesting. Yes, I am a spy.” He paused and glanced away. “And you are very keen for my company.”

“Well, you’re fascinating,” John said immediately.

“Am I?”

“Of course you are. The way you know all about people just by looking at them? That’s amazing.”

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John chuckled and Sherlock’s mouth turned up a little. Sherlock continued to watch him carefully, though.

“But is that the only reason you come and sit here?”

John felt the heat rising to his face.

“You watch me when you think I’m asleep,” Sherlock prodded. “Do you — could it be that you find me…attractive? Even like this?”

John felt his throat constricting. His fingers shook a little as they moved carefully over the ravaged flesh of Sherlock’s hip to remove the soiled bandage. He tried to ignore the flat plain of the man’s abdomen, the delicate trail of dark hair that led to…

John dropped the bandages as though scorched himself and nearly overturned his stool in his haste to back away from Sherlock’s bed. He was breathing too fast — on the edge of hyperventilating. He blinked at Sherlock, who was now watching him with a look of genuine surprise.

“Dr. Watson, I apologize for my presumption…”

“I’m going to…go…I’ll send…”

John fled the room. He didn’t stop running until he’d reached his quarters, only then remembering that he would have to go back to the ward to send a nurse in for Sherlock’s dressing change. His hands were shaking as he leaned over the basin beside his makeshift bunk and splashed cool water on his face. He stood, face dripping, and regarded himself in the small mirror he’d propped against the wall.

“Oh, my god.”

_______________________

**_Fossoli di Carpi Concentration Camp, May 1944_ **

_The train journey was excruciating and might well have killed me, but for my companions._

_A Rom woman bound my wounds to prevent them from opening again. She and her people had been rounded up in the countryside and held in a small camp outside Budapest. Now they and several hundred Jews were being transferred._

_Fossoli originally had been an Italian deportation camp. The Germans had deemed it better suited to the elimination of threats to the Reich or to “Aryan purity.” Jews and gypsies, in this case, though I knew of camps in other locations that contained academics, members of the Protestant and Catholic clergy and the handicapped, as well._

_Once in the camp, I knew I would be questioned until I broke or died, neither of which was an appealing option._

_“We must go,” I said to my companions. We were packed inside the car so tightly that there was barely enough room for us to move. They had — very kindly — made space for me to sit._

_“How?” The woman who had bound my wounds asked. She was an elder, I think; the others seemed to look to her for leadership._

_“The doors,” I replied. “We can undo the latch and get the door open.”_

_“And do what — jump from a moving train?”_

_“The train will have to slow as we approach the camp.”_

_“They will shoot at us,” she said. “Many of us may die.”_

_“But you would have a chance. If they get you inside the camp, all of you **will** die. There will be no chance then. None at all. Do you understand?”_

_The woman nodded. She relayed this to her people in their own tongue and there was a general murmuring of agreement. There was a small group of elderly folk who expressed a wish to remain behind. They knew the jump would likely result in injury and did not wish to be a burden on the others. They were prepared to die, they said, if it meant the others might live._

_I witnessed a very touching expression of community as those who would try to escape venerated their elders for such willing sacrifice. I am not often moved; this was as close as I had come since I received news of Victor…_

_This unbidden memory surprised me. I had not thought of that day for some time. Yet, as I faced my almost certain death — whether from the fall, or being shot, or in the camp — I found myself thinking of him._

_Fortunately, I did not have long to reflect on my past. The decision had been made, and so two of the young men helped me to my feet. We set to work on the doors._

_When all was in readiness, we waited. It was difficult to keep track of time in the windowless box. Eventually, though, we could hear shouting from the front of the train and the engine began to slow. We pulled the door open enough to confirm where we were. And we were in luck. The train had slowed still at least a mile from the camp. There was decent cover just ahead. We had a chance._

_The young men jumped first and then ran alongside to assist the rest. There was chaos ahead: soldiers running in our direction, weapons firing. There was a terrible squealing as the train’s brakes were applied._

_The Rom scattered and I with them. A few of our number were hit by stray bullets, but a far greater number were not. I had landed heavily on my bad foot, but was otherwise unencumbered. We ran without looking back._

_I travelled at night, several days I think. The pain from my injuries and weakness from hunger were beginning to take their toll. At last, I came to a point at which I knew I could go no further._

_I had resigned myself to dying alone when suddenly I came upon a small farm surrounded by woods. It was deserted, as far as I could tell. There were two buildings, which meant shelter and the possibility of food._

_I collapsed inside what had been the pig barn. I did not hear the shelling. I do not remember anything at all except the pain as the flames licked the clothes from my body…_

_______________________

John listened to the ramblings of his slumbering patient, leaning one shoulder against the arched entryway to the shrine with his arms crossed. He couldn’t quite bring himself to go back to Sherlock’s bedside. Their last conversation had shaken him to his core.

And yet…

“Watson?”

John looked up as his Canadian CO approached. “Sir.” He turned sharply and offered a salute.

“At ease, captain,” Major Hastings said briskly. He stepped near the dim room, hands clasped behind his back. “And how is your special patient?”

“He’s improving, sir, though the paralysis is still a concern.”

Hastings nodded, his expression solemn. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Is it?”

“We’re bugging out.”

“But…I thought we had a few more days.”

“The corps will be shipped out for much-needed rest. We’re to go on ahead; most of the patients have already been evacuated as you know — it’s just the amputees and your mystery man, there.” Hastings thrust his chin in the direction of the shrine.

“Sir, he can’t be moved. With the swelling on his spine, there’s no telling what might happen. He just needs a few more days for the swelling to go down.”

“Well, we don’t have it. I’m sorry.” Hastings placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Look, I know you want to do your best by him, as a physician, but we don’t even know who he is. He has no papers; nothing at all. If we had a name, maybe we could contact someone.”

John stared at the floor. “I’ll stay behind.”

“What?”

“I’ll stay behind. With him,” John continued, picking up speed as the idea took root. “I’ll wait here until he can be moved safely and then I’ll rejoin my old unit.”

“Watson…”

“Major, please,” John begged. He’d never done that before. “Sir, I know you don’t know much about him and I probably shouldn’t repeat what I’ve learned about him, other than to say that I think he’s very important. I think it’s our duty to take care of him.”

Major Hastings looked conflicted. “I can’t leave you behind on your own. Reinforcements will be going straight to the front and the medical team will be at least another day getting into place.”

“But we’re well behind the line. And no one will know we’re here.”

“This is highly unorthodox.”

“I know that, sir. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Hastings hesitated for a while longer, clearly weighing his options. “I’ll give you an additional 24 hours, then I’m sending the ambulance back for you and you’ll move him regardless, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Hastings nodded. “Well, then. You have a weapon?”

“I do,” John replied smartly.

“Fine. See that you keep it to hand. I’ll have Margaret check in about leaving supplies for you.” Hastings extended his hand. “You’re a good man, Watson. I’m grateful to have had you with us.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s been a privilege.”

Hastings nodded once more and turned to leave. “Watson?”

“Sir?”

“Get home safely, would you?”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”


	4. Chapter 4

**_Wanborough Manor, Guildford, September 1940_ **

_“Holmes?”_

_I turned at the sound of my name. “Oh. Trevor.”_

_“That’s a half-hearted greeting for an old college chum.”_

_I looked him up and down — he hadn’t changed much since our days at Cambridge. Victor Trevor was still a handsome devil. He was just taller than I, with broad shoulders and golden curls, and brown eyes that sparkled when he spoke to you. He was just that sort of man: effortlessly cheerful and hopelessly optimistic. And charming. So very, very charming._

_I took my time getting to where he stood on the gravel drive. I was no longer a gawky 14-year-old, desperately trying to fit in with my much-older classmates._

_“Well, look at you,” Victor chuckled. “You certainly grew into your face. And your body.”_

_“What is that supposed to mean?”_

_“You were all lips and elbows when I met you,” Victor teased. “Lanky and awkward, with a baby face. It’s no wonder no one knew what to do with you — you looked even younger than you were.”_

_I bristled at that. I hated being reminded of my youth. “I would have thought my academic record would have been enough to ensure that I was treated with respect.”_

_“You know how it is,” Victor said, slapping my shoulder. “All those clever chaps were being shown up by a scrap of a boy. They were just jealous of you, Holmes. Like I told you.”_

_He had told me. Many times._

_Remarkably, Victor had always been very kind to me. He did not seem to be affected by many of the frailties of British masculinity. He liked most people and was pleasant to everyone. Certainly, he was not victim to the insecurity that seemed to plague many of our fellows, particularly where I was concerned. Nor did he seem to require sexual conquest to bolster his sense of self. When the other lads recounted their exploits, Victor kept his own counsel. He was always a gentleman. Everyone liked him._

_For my part, I had tried to keep him at arm’s length, as I did with everyone. He had not allowed it though. He’d always kept an eye on me — inviting me to sit with him and his friends at meals, and making sure I was invited to parties. He happily sought my help with his studies and offered to teach me to row and to box._

_We hadn’t been friends, I suppose. Not really. Our age difference had seen to that. Still, I couldn’t help but appreciate him. He was a decent sort. He didn’t treat me like a “freak,” as our classmates had often called me._

_“So how did they get you?”_

_Victor’s voice shook me from my reverie. “How? Oh, this. My brother sent someone to collect me. I wasn’t really asked.”_

_“Your brother? Is he mixed up in this?”_

_“I’ve always found it best not to enquire into my brother’s business,” I said, smirking. “All I know is we are to be part of a bold new experiment in espionage.”_

_“Yes — the brightest and the best. At least, that’s what they told me.”_

_I snorted. “You? The brightest and best?”_

_“Yes, all right. No need to be rude,” Victor chided, though his voice contained no malice. He knew what I was like and it and it had never seemed to bother him. “I was working for a private company, translating and the like, when I decided to enlist. That’s when they found me.”_

_“So here we are,” I said, casting my eyes around to the Elizabethan country house that was to be our home for several weeks while we were trained._

_Victor nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “S’pose we’ll have to learn hand-to-hand-combat?”_

_“Well, if we do, you’ll outstrip us all. You’ve at least 30 pounds on me.”_

_“Oh, that doesn’t really matter,” Victor said, tsking. “C’mon, Holmes, I taught you better than that. You’re light on your feet. That’s a proper advantage.”_

_“I suppose.”_

_A dour old woman appeared in the doorway and gestured for us to make our way indoors. Victor smirked at me as we walked._

_“I’m glad you’re here, Holmes,” he whispered to me as the door closed behind us._

_Strangely, I had just been thinking the very same thing._

______________________

“Who’s Victor?”

Sherlock rolled his head to the side, eyes drifting open slowly. “Oh, it’s you.”

John nodded stiffly. “Given your _profession_ , and the fact that you tend to talk in your sleep, I thought it would be best if we limited your visitors to just me and Margaret. The fewer people to overhear, the better, I suppose.”

“Very sensible,” Sherlock muttered, licking his dry lips. “You are a pragmatist, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m a loyal subject and a soldier. I’ll do what I can to protect your secret.” He lifted the tin cup in offering and Sherlock nodded. John lifted his head carefully and pressed the cup to his mouth. Sherlock swallowed and nodded his thanks, and John rested his head back against the pillow. “Is Victor your…boyfriend?” John asked cautiously.

“I-I want to apologize for my behaviour. Before,” Sherlock started, ignoring the question. “I am not — I have never been very good with people. I sometimes blurt things out when I notice them, without thinking. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t,” John replied curtly.

“I very much think I did.”

John ground his teeth and started at the rough edges of the stone floor beneath his feet. “I wasn’t offended.”

“No?”

“No.” John lifted his chin to meet the icy blue eyes. “I have never…I mean there was someone in the past, but I didn’t…I’ve never allowed myself to…” John squirmed with the discomfort of discussing such a sensitive topic.

“I understand,” Sherlock said. He glanced in the direction of the door. “They’re leaving.”

“Yes.”

“And I will be…”

“Staying here until you can be moved safely.”

“Here?”

“With me. I’ll stay with you for an additional 24 hours, to allow some more time for the swelling to go down. Major Hastings will send the ambulance back then and — well, we’ll just have to see how we get on.”

“You are staying here with me. Alone?”

“That’s right. They can’t wait and I can’t really blame them. They don’t know who you are or what to do with you. But I don’t want to see you paralyzed permanently if I can prevent it, so it’s down to me.”

“John, you shouldn’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Yes, well, apparently I have an unnatural attraction to dangerous situations.” John smirked. “And people.”

“There is nothing I can say to dissuade you.”

“No. It’s already done.”

“Then will you do something for me, before we are left here on our own?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“I need you to send a message for me.”

__________________________________________

**_London, September 1942_ **

_“Holmes.”_

_“Trevor.”_

_I shifted slightly on the settee to allow Victor to join me. He feigned listening to the speaker — something about the rise of the communist threat (were ordinary people really so very unaware of what was going on in the world?) — so I did likewise._

_The event was tedious, but our host, Lord Jacob Marberry, was a friend of the Special Operations Executive, or SOE (also called the ‘Baker Street Irregulars’ for the location of our headquarters) and was doing his bit to ensure continued funding for our operations. This included occasional “public education” evenings at his townhouse._

_Victor and I had been invited as a courtesy, and because we were handsome young men in uniform who could offer an arm to any of the well-kept dames who attended such lectures. Their husbands busy with the business and government side of the war effort, many of the county’s elite ladies looked for their own ways to “help out.” Lord Marberry’s soirées always offered information as well as an opportunity to alleviate moral obligation through charity._

_Tonight’s recipient was the fictitious British Aid for Polish Orphans fund (aka the SOE translation and decryption centre)._

_The speaker’s voice droned on and I allowed my mind and my gaze to wander. I surveyed and itemized every detail of those in the room, as was my habit. Lady Allinstone’s husband was still sleeping with her sister (weight gain: eight pounds; no longer wearing the ring her father had given her on her 16 th birthday, to which her twin sister had the match). And Lady Gravesend had finally come to terms with her predilections (the woman had hardly stopped staring at the maid’s bosom since the evening began)._

_“When did Marberry take up golf?” Victor whispered._

_I suppressed a shiver at my companion’s warm breath in my ear. I raised a brow and Victor whispered again, “His left index finger.”_

_I smirked and nodded once. Victor leaned against the opposite arm of the settee and crossed his legs. His hand he left resting on the padded seat next to mine. I could feel the warmth radiating from his fingers — they were shorter and sturdier than my own, but no less beautiful. Slowly, and without looking, I allowed my hand to brush against them. Once. And again._

_Victor sighed. To the casual observer, it would sound like boredom. I knew better, of course. It was the same sound Victor made when I sucked at the tender flesh below his left ear._

_I risked a look, pivoting only slightly. Victor did not turn toward me, but smiled — full lips parted over even, white teeth._

_I knew the smile was for me. I would probably never understand why, but I was grateful nonetheless._

______________________

“Oh!” John halted with the spoon half-way to Sherlock’s mouth.

The broth Margaret had arranged for him — along with some other foodstuffs and medical supplies — was now lukewarm as it dripped onto Sherlock’s chest. John set the spoon down and swiped at the mess with a clean cloth.

“Yes?”

“So you were…together?”

“By then, yes. Does that trouble you?”

“N-no. I just…” John flushed. “It’s not that. It’s…how did you…pass?”

“Ah, I see. Well, we were vigilant. It was easier at this stage, to conceal our true relationship. We had not been together at university, of course. I was too young and far too focussed on my studies. Victor was far too focussed on his girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yes, girlfriend. He’d had several before we became lovers.”

John swallowed hard at the use of the word. “But I thought he…”

“Oh, he’d had boyfriends, too. Victor delighted in every form of love. He was very engaging and he enjoyed showering affection on others.” Sherlock sighed. “I am not particularly given to — well, I’ve never been one to indulge in sentimentality. Certainly, I had never bothered to explore sensuality. But Victor was different. We were very close. I cared for him and I shall always miss him.”

There was a weighty pause as John considered what he might say. “I’m sorry,” he finally replied. “For your loss.” He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Oh!”

“What is it?”

“I think I…I felt something, when you touched my shoulder.”

“Here?” John pressed his hand down again.

“No…”

“Here?”

“Yes. Yes, there it is. I think I can feel your hand. Somewhat,” Sherlock sounded relieved. “It’s a good sign, yes?’

John nodded.

“Good,” Sherlock said softly. “Good.”

John left his hand where it was, not willing to give up the contact.

“Where was I?” Sherlock asked.

“Victor,” John said. “You were telling me about Victor.”

“Yes, Victor. He was a good man.”

“How did he…no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask about that.”

Sherlock stared at John, his lovely eyes almost luminescent. “But I do not mind telling you.”

John licked his lips. “Really? You — you don’t mind?”

“I’ve told you so much already, what’s one more secret?”

Sherlock choked on the last word and sputtered a little, and then began to cough. The spasm continued for several minutes. John waited and at last lifted Sherlock’s head to offer him a sip of water. Sherlock received it gratefully, eyeing John over the tin cup.

He swallowed, tracing the last droplets from his lips with his tongue. He huffed with amusement. “Ah, and now you look very cross with me.”

“Cross? No. Not at all,” John said firmly, setting the cup back down on the stone ledge beside him. “I’m worried. I had hoped that your lungs would be showing improvement.”

“Please don’t concern yourself. It’s just the dust in this old pile.”

John tugged his stethoscope from his neck and placed the bell over Sherlock’s bare chest. “The smoke was very damaging. The last thing you need is a case of pneumonia.” He leaned in and offered a reassuring smile. “Breathe in for me.”

Sherlock did so, never taking his eyes from John’s. John concentrated on the sounds emanating from his patient’s chest, but could not relax under such scrutiny. Every time Sherlock looked at him, it made him feel utterly exposed.

When at last he sat back in his chair, Sherlock clucked his tongue. “Your expression does not inspire confidence, doctor.”

“I need to get you out of here,” John said, placing a hand against Sherlock’s brow. “You’ve a bit of a fever — it could be infection setting in. Perhaps it was a mistake to stay behind the others. You need more care than I can give you here.”

“Were you able to send my message?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Radio operator told me it went through fine. I assume it will make sense to whoever is receiving it.”

“It will,” Sherlock assured him. “Hopefully, someone will be able to retrieve me once we leave here.”

“God, I hope this works,” John sighed. “If you get worse for having stayed behind, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“This was the right decision, John. I would prefer to keep the use of my legs, if I can. I am willing to chance it, though I will deeply regret it if anything happens to you on my account.”

The two men shared a look that had the colour rising to John’s cheeks. John licked his lips and reached for his pocket watch, anxious for a distraction. He could not explain the feelings that came over him when in Sherlock’s presence. From the very first, he had been drawn to his enigmatic patient. He had never allowed himself to entertain such thoughts about another man before, but here — in this lonely place at what felt like the edge of the world — it seemed almost inevitable.

“They’ve been gone almost eighteen hours. It won’t be long now.”

“Only six hours until the ambulance returns.”

“I only hope…”

“Let’s not worry about that now,” Sherlock said. “Why don’t I tell you about Victor? Though I warn you, it is the story of a romantic and sexual relationship between two men. Is that something you feel you can tolerate hearing?”

John flushed again, ducking his head. “Yes.”

Sherlock waited, but John could not look him in the eye.

“Very well, then. We met for the last time in France…”

_______________________________

**Paris, January 1943**

_“For god’s sake,” Victor groused from the bed. “Will you just take off your trousers and get over here?”_

_He was naked already, sprawled wantonly over the crocheted coverlet. With one hand, he replaced a lit cigarette between his lips; with the other, he was lazily stroking his rapidly hardening cock. I watched this out of the corner of my eye, but refused to be distracted._

_“I need to be presentable tomorrow,” I said evenly, carefully hanging my trousers over the back of the overstuffed chair in the corner of our borrowed garret. I looked out over the Paris skyline through the small window. A siren sounded in the distance. “I need to look like an official representative of the Hungarian government.”_

_Victor snorted. “Your Hungarian is shit. We both know it. Mine’s far better.”_

_“My Hungarian is beyond reproach,” I boasted, finally making my way to the narrow bed. “You don’t pay enough attention to idiom. You never have.”_

_Victor stubbed his cigarette into the empty coffee cup on the bedside table at his elbow and reached for me with a lascivious grin. “Come here, you pompous prick.”_

_I couldn’t help but smile back as one strong hand fastened around my wrist and tugged me off balance. I landed on my knees on the bed between Victor’s spread thighs. Victor stretched up and cupped a hand behind my head._

_“You lovely, rare creature,” he breathed, pulling me down so he could nuzzle into my neck. “God, how I’ve missed you.”_

_I inhaled Victor’s cologne and wrapped both arms around him. “I’m neither lovely nor rare,” I protested softly, kneading Victor’s broad shoulders. “I am skinny and pale and I can be forgettable. It’s what makes me so good at what I do — I can disappear.”_

_“You are so very clever and talented,” Victor continued, ignoring the self-deprecation and sucked at my earlobe._

_“And odd,” I reminded him, happily pressing my groin into Victor’s body as firm hands caressed my bottom. “I’m odd. Everyone says so.”_

_“Morons,” Victor grumbled, licking into the sensitive hollow of my collarbone. “You are exquisite.” He kissed the column of my throat. “Unique.” Another kiss, with the liberal application of a teasing tongue. “Precious.”_

_“You are biased,” I chided lightly. “Because I let you bugger me.”_

_Victor pulled back sharply, holding me by both arms. “What did you say?”_

_I was confused by his reaction. “I only meant…”_

_“I know what you meant, Holmes, and it was a despicable thing to imply.”_

_Victor sounded sad or perhaps…_

_“I’m…sorry,” I tried, applying fingertips to Victor’s stubbled cheek. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”_

_“Well, you did,” Victor muttered. He searched my face. “I don’t — is that what you think this is about for me? Getting off in the nearest available hole?”_

_“No,” I said, but I knew my voice betrayed my uncertainty. I’d never understood Victor’s affection for me. I had very few acquaintances and no friends and had always struggled in my interactions with people, outside of those occasions when I was portraying a character or perpetrating a sham for the purposes of a mission. Victor was different, but I had always assumed it was because he was attracted to my body. “But we are in the middle of a war. And I’m here…”_

_“Stop!” Victor snapped. “Stop right there. Don’t say another word.” He pushed me away from him and rolled to sit on the edge of the bed, head in his hands._

_“Victor?”_

_“Why would you think that? That I’ve built a relationship with you just so I’d have someone to fuck while behind enemy lines?” Victor released a ragged breath. “How could you think so little of me? Or yourself?”_

_“I’m sorry,” I tried again. I placed one hand on Victor’s back and when I wasn’t rebuffed I shifted closer. Slowly, I wound myself around Victor’s warm, broad body. I pressed my cheek into the springy curls at his nape with a sigh. “You know this really isn’t my long suit.”_

_Victor snorted again, clasping one of my arms where it rested on his chest. “It really isn’t. Not least because you’ve dramatically underestimated the number of very attractive French men and women I’ve met working with the Resistance.”_

_I was startled by this. I hadn’t considered the possibility, and was surprised to discover that it bothered me. “Have you…?”_

_“Don’t make this any worse by suggesting I would cheat on you.”_

_“Y-you would consider that cheating?”_

_“We’re in a relationship, so yes, I would.”_

_“Oh. We are?”_

_“Of course we are,” Victor teased, turning his head to bump his cheek into my nose. “Honestly, Holmes.”_

_“Sorry.”_

_Victor undid my arms and turned once more. He tugged me into his embrace and fell back against the bed with me on top of him. I hovered above him, waiting for some kind of confirmation that all was forgiven. Instead, Victor petted my face with a melancholy expression._

_He brushed his fingers through my dark curls. “I love you, you insensitive clod.”_

_My breath caught. “Oh.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“I don’t know what to say,” I admitted, biting my lip._

_“Just tell me what you’re thinking.”_

_“I don’t think that’s wise.”_

_“Sherlock…”_

_“Well, of course I-I am very…touched. And I think I…”_

_Victor sighed and pulled me against his chest. “You’re going to sprain something if you keep that up. I can hear you thinking.” Victor stroked my back. “Look, I love you. And I know you feel something for me. I know you do. You’ve always been a bit removed from this sort of thing — just take your time. It’s fine. It’s all fine. ”_

_I allowed the silence to settle, relishing the feel of Victor’s solid body beneath me. I dragged fingertips through the blond hair on Victor’s chest, tracing circles around one nipple. “So…what do we do when the war is over?”_

_“Dunno. Get a flat to share near the river. Go to work for your brother.”_

_I halted with Victor’s nipple between my thumb and forefinger and propped up on one elbow. I’m sure I must have been scowling. “Please don’t bring him into this.”_

_“Okay, that’s it.”_

_“That’s what?”_

_Victor pulled me toward him and kissed me. “Stop talking now.”_

_“But — ” A finger pressed to my open mouth._

_“Sherlock? Shut up and fuck me.”_

_I blinked at him for a moment. “But I’ve never done that.”_

_“Do you want to?” Victor asked gently. “You don’t have to. It isn’t a requirement. I just thought you might like to see how it feels the other way.”_

_“I don’t know. I think I might, but — are you sure you don’t mind?”_

_Victor chuckled and pressed his lips to my brow. “You really are amazing. One of a kind.” He brushed his lips over my cheekbone. “I would love to feel your cock filling me up, Sherlock. I’ve wanted to ask before, but we’ve always been in such a hurry, and you always seemed to like it the other way ‘round…”_

_“I did. I mean I do.” I shifted, suddenly very aware of every brush of Victor’s thigh against my shaft. I angled my hips, instantly gratified as my prick swelled. Victor slipped a hand between us and began to massage me gently. “Mmmmm. Oh, that’s…very good.”_

_“It is, isn’t it?” Victor arched his back, bumping his own firm cock up against my belly. I obliged and captured it with my hand. We tugged at each other, eyes locked, breath mingling. “And it’s going to get so much better.”_

_“Yes! Good,” I panted. “I want to fuck you. Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me what to do.”_

_“Shhh, pet. I’ve got you.” Victor nibbled at my mouth. “I’ll teach you. It will feel soooo good, I promise.”_

_I offered no resistance as Victor rolled us over until I was flat on my back. Victor kissed me lingeringly before licking a trail down my neck and chest. And then, without ceremony, he rotated until his head was facing my feet and gingerly set one knee on either side of my head while his own was…_

_“FUCK!” I arched off the bed as Victor’s mouth closed around the head of my cock, suckling noisily. Victor pulled off only long enough to shush me and then returned to his task. He dropped his hips toward my head hopefully; his dribbling prick bumped against my cheek. I quite happily turned my face to pull the head between my lips._

_It was Victor’s turn to make undignified noises._

_We sucked and licked and teased each other for ages. There is nothing quite like the taste of cock; the feel of the blood-engorged shaft throbbing between your lips. Or the heady power of knowing that you can reduce a man to a quivering wreck merely by lavishing this one part of his anatomy with your tongue._

_If you have never experienced it — well, I will say it is one of the elements of human sexual contact that I find very pleasing, indeed._

_At length, though, Victor began to shake with need. I knew he would come soon and did not want to miss the chance to be inside of him. I released him and smoothed my hands over his thighs. He sighed as he released me as well, peeking back at me under his arm._

_“You look utterly debauched,” he chuckled. “With that pretty pink colour on your chest and cheeks, and your lips all swollen and moist.”_

_“I’m eager for my lesson,” I whispered, daring to run my hands up and over his bottom. I slipped my fingers into his cleft, and rubbed gently over his hole._

_Victor groaned and pushed back into my hand. “You need…it’s on the t-table.”_

_I reached for the special oil Victor always used. I doused my fingers and reached up to dribble some down between his arse cheeks._

_“Just one to start, pet.”_

_I hummed my understanding and slipped slick digits between the firm mounds hovering so temptingly above me. I circled his rim first, pressing gently._

_“Good…oh fuck, so good,” Victor pushed back into my hand once more._

_“No,” I said sharply._

_“Please, pet…”_

_“In my time. You always make me wait until I am gagging for it.”_

_His head dropped between his shoulders. “Go on. I’ll be still.”_

_I dipped the tip of one finger inside the tight ring of muscle, circling and testing the level of Victor’s relaxation._

_“You need to let go,” I whispered. I slipped the finger in a little deeper and pulsed. “Let me in.”_

_“It’s been a while,” Victor panted._

_“Do you want me to stop?” I prayed he would say no, but I would have done if he’d asked me._

_“God, no! More. Add another. Please.”_

_I married my index finger to my middle finger and slid them back inside the lubricated and somewhat eased passage. I pumped my fingers as Victor always did, spreading my fingers and making room for what would follow._

_“OH, fuck, yeah. That’s it. Oh, pet, just like…FUCK!”_

_I had found his prostate. If you have never…well, suffice it to say that it is a pleasure quite unlike anything else._

_Victor was rotating his hips and moaning. His thighs were trembling._

_“Do you need to lie down?” I asked._

_“Please! Oh, god, hurry.”_

_I removed my fingers and allowed him to reverse our positions. Soon he was on his back gazing up at me, thighs spread wide. He looked ridiculously please with himself as I lowered myself over him. I kissed him, just because I could, as I returned to fingering him._

_“Are you ready?” I whispered, beginning to feel quite desperate myself._

_“Mmmmm,” Victor replied happily. He kissed my mouth and flicked the tip of his tongue over my bottom lip, which he loved. “Fuck me.”_

_I nodded, trying to look confident. It was a simple enough mechanical process, but I feared I would not be able to live up to Victor’s previous performances. I rubbed the head of my engorged cock over him first. He sighed at this, so I pressed in._

_“Oh!”_

_“What?” I tried not to sound panicked, but I didn’t want to hurt him._

_“My god, you feel so good.” Victor wrapped his arms around me and rubbed my back._

_I eased forward, letting him take me inch by inch. I was sweating profusely now, with the strain of denial. I wanted nothing more than to bury myself in the velvety warmth of Victor’s body._

_“More, pet. Give me more. Harder.”_

_I pulled back and thrust in, this time with more force. Victor keened so loudly I had to slap a hand over his mouth. Still, I was more than emboldened to give him the thorough seeing to that he deserved. I snapped my hips forward over and over and over…_

_Victor came with a shout, his cock untouched by either of us (something I have never experienced myself). His body contracting around me was more than I could bear; I collapsed into his arms and filled him full._

_Later — much, much later — Victor stood near the door dressing. I was still languid, naked, in our borrowed bed._

_“Why?” I asked._

_“Why what?”_

_“Why this? Why today?”_

_Victor shrugged. “I’ve always wanted it.”_

_“Yes, I know. But why now?”_

_“I don’t know…because I thought it was time, all right?” He tugged his trousers up and stuffed his shirttails into them._

_I knew something was wrong._

_I knew there was very little I could do about it._

_“Victor, where are you going tomorrow?”_

_Victor pulled his coat on. “Not supposed to say.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous.”_

_“I only know what I’ve been told, and I’m not supposed to repeat it to anyone. Ever.”_

_I considered this. There was no point in arguing; Victor would never disobey an order. Not even for me. “Fine. We’ll meet here in three days, yes?”_

_“Sure, yeah. Three days.” Victor pulled his cap down low over his ears as he turned back to me. “I love you, Holmes. Don’t forget that, will you?”_

_“No. Of course I won’t,” I said sadly. Somehow, in that moment, I knew that I would never see him again. “Victor?”_

_“Hmmm?”_

_“I…” I swallowed around words I could not say. “Be careful. Please.”_

_Victor smiled at me, and I knew he understood._

_“You, too.”_

_And then he was gone._

__________________________________________

John was shaking by the time the story was done. His eyes were damp, thinking of Victor going to his death in such a way. But the graphic recollection of their lovemaking had also left him aching, and he could not look Sherlock in the eye.

“Why did you tell me this?”

“I’ve made you uncomfortable,” Sherlock said softly.

“No!” John said, far too quickly. He shook his head, laughing tightly. “Well, yes, actually, but not in the way you mean.”

“John, please look at me.”

He lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, holding his breath. Sherlock was smiling at him.

“You are an extraordinary man, John Watson.”

“I’m just an army doctor.”

“You are _extraordinary_.”

“Compared to you — ”

“Far better than me,” Sherlock insisted. “I am not a good man. I am a cold, hard, ruthlessly rational being. And yet you would risk your life for mine.”

“You’re my patient,” John mumbled.

“Is that all?”

John shook his head.

“I have never experienced anything like this before. Not even with Victor.”

“Nor me.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock said, his voice small. “I cannot explain it.”

“I know,” John said suddenly, surprising himself. He reached for Sherlock’s uninjured hand and clasped it between both of his own. “I have no idea what’s happening to me, but I know that I can’t imagine never seeing you again. Never hearing your voice again, Sherlock…Holmes?”

Sherlock nodded. “I wish I could touch you.”

“God, I wish that, too.”

“Lay with me a while?”

John nodded, and tugged up the bed he had brought in to sleep at Sherlock’s side. He snugged it in beside Sherlock’s bed and stretched out facing him. He took Sherlock’s hand once more and pressed it to his lips.

________________________________

**_Cappella di Santa Domenica, May 1944_ **

John jolted awake, Sherlock’s hand clasped to his chest, at the sound of engines in the yard. He consulted his pocket watch quickly and frowned.

“It’s too soon for the ambulance,” Sherlock said, his voice sleepy.

“Yeah, it is,” John agreed. He stood and reached for his weapon, checking to make sure it was ready to fire. He bent then and blew out the remaining candle. “Stay very quiet. I’ll be back.”

John moved silently through the empty chapel, listening for a familiar accent, or — god forbid — an enemy one. The vehicle outside had stopped, though the engine remained on. The headlamps shone in through the stained glass window casting an eerie rainbow into the sanctuary.

“Inside!” an English voice shouted.

John sagged with relief, but remained vigilant. He still didn’t know who they were or what they wanted. There were multiple footsteps heading in his direction.

He waited for them, feet planted and weapon drawn.

The first of three men burst through the heavy wooden doors.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!”

One of the men moved as though to reach for a weapon, but the taller man beside him stayed his hand. The tall man stepped forward. “You are Captain John Watson?”

“Who are you?”

“My name is not important. We’re here for Sherlock Holmes.”

“Who. Are. You?” John repeated through gritted teeth.

The tall man took several steps forward. “I assure you, we are your allies and have only his best interests at heart. I am here to remove him to England, where he will receive the best treatment possible.”

“There is an ambulance coming back in two hours,” I replied. “We’ll go then.”

“Yes,” the tall man said smoothly. “About that. A truck will be by shortly to collect you; they were right behind us. The ambulance will not be coming. Mr. Holmes is going with us.”

“No,” John snapped. “We’re trying to give his spine — ”

“I am aware of his injuries, but it is of paramount importance that we remove Mr. Holmes to a secure location immediately.” More gently, the man said. “Another two hours is unlikely to make much difference, medically. We must hope for the best.”

“JOHN!”

He turned at Sherlock’s shout and returned at a run to the small shrine. “What is it? Are you in pain?”

“John, it’s all right. I know who they are and I will go with them.”

John pressed a hand to Sherlock’s brow. “Oh, god. You’re burning up.”

“They’ll take care of me. It’s all right.”

John looked over his shoulder, out through the arched doorway, at the two privates and the tall man in tweed. “But…” he looked back at Sherlock, trying to hide his panic. “What will I — when will I see you?”

“I’ll find you,” Sherlock’s voice was steady.

John reached for his hand once more. “Promise me.”

“Promise.”

John nodded, fighting to keep the tears from his eyes. He stood back and watched as Sherlock’s litter was picked up and carried out to the waiting truck. The tall man paused beside him as Sherlock was loaded into the back.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

“What for?”

“For keeping him alive. For keeping him…secret.”

John nodded sadly, his heart aching.

“You’re no talking fool,” the tall man continued. “And I have learned enough about you to know that I can rely upon you to keep what you have heard to yourself.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you,” the man said again. He began to walk to the truck.

“You will take care of him,” John called after him.

“You have my word,” the tall man answered. He tipped his hat and climbed into the passenger seat of the truck.

As they were backing away, the sun was just beginning to make itself known on the horizon. John watched Sherlock drive away for as long as he could.

A few minutes later, as promised, another vehicle arrived.

A young woman, Canadian, poked her head out of the second truck window. “You Dr. Watson?”

John nodded, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“We’re your ride. You ready to go?”

“Just give me a minute.”

Back inside the chapel, he gathered his kit from the shrine. He ran a hand over the painted walls and stared down at the empty bed.

“Promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

John balanced himself on the crowded bus at it rumbled down Baker Street. He’d left his friends in Trafalgar Square, but with the crush of people there, they were unlikely to miss him.

It was not as though he wasn’t elated. Celebrating the Victory in Europe seemed like a miracle. He could scarcely believe it was finally over. And yet, standing amongst his countrymen and comrades, John felt like a fraud.

He’d been released from hospital only two months prior and had been directed to a convalescent facility where he had a drab, cramped room overlooking Portman Square. He was still having difficulty adjusting to the impact of his injuries. His shoulder ached and probably would do so for the rest of his life. The damage done meant he would never be able to perform surgery again. His leg was — well, the doctor insisted it was “all in his head.” They could find no physical injury causing the pain that now forced him to walk with a stick.

Today, amidst overwhelming relief at the end of Hitler’s tyranny, Dr. John Watson was also melancholy that he would be wearing his uniform for what was likely the last time.

The war was over and he had no idea what to do next.

“’Scuse me.”

John looked down into the face of a boy, about 10 years old. He was sitting next to an older woman in a kerchief (his grandmother?) who was holding his hand very tightly. “Yes?”

“Why aren’t you celebratin’? If I was old enough, I’d be down the palace right now.”

The older woman turned to the boy with a stricken expression. “You cheeky beggar! You mind your business.” She turned to John. “Sorry, captain. Boy’s just excited about everythin’ today.”

“Not at all. He’s probably right — I should be celebrating.”

The woman took in his cane; her smile was sympathetic as she met John’s eyes once more. “Sometimes all the good news in the world ain’t enough to make up for the bad.”

“Fitzhardinge Street!” was called from the front of the bus.

“That’s us,” the woman said. She stood and began to shove the boy out toward the doors. She hesitated as she passed John and grasped his hand where it held his stick. “Bless you,” she said softly, and she was gone.

John was momentarily stunned by the exchange, so much so that it took him several minutes to realize that he’d just missed what was his own stop as well.

He sat heavily in the empty seat next to him. It was probably for the best. In his current frame of mind, there was little point in returning to his miserable little room. There was nothing there for him but an invitation to stay with his sister in Yorkshire (a bleak prospect as they’d never got on), a copy of _David Copperfield_ and his sidearm.

He had thought about it. More than once. Usually following one of the nightmares that left him sweaty and shaken.

He stared ahead out the front of the bus to Baker Street. If he stayed on a bit longer, as far as Bickenhall Street, he could take a walk up toward Regent’s Park. Perhaps today he might be able to figure out which of the buildings housed Sherlock’s Irregulars.

In truth, he’d already walked every inch of Baker Street — in fits and starts — since his release from hospital. The doctors had told him he needed to exercise his leg anyway, and when he’d realized how close the convalescent home was, he’d taken every opportunity to explore the street so tied to his memories of Sherlock Holmes.

Somehow, thinking about his lovely, brilliant, mysterious patient in Italy made him feel less…hopeless.

When he finally alighted and stepped out onto the pavement, the light was beginning to fade. He ignored the encroaching dusk and began to walk. He stared up into the windows of the buildings as he passed, trying to imagine Sherlock’s face in one of them.

At length, he reached the edge of the park. It was nearly dark now, though there were lights on tonight. Once more, he allowed his imagination to wander. He pictured Sherlock — handsome and robust — pacing vigorously down one of the paths and disappearing into the park. John moved to follow his fantasy.

“John?”

He froze at the sound of his name. His name in…Sherlock’s voice. Oh, god. He was hallucinating.

“Dr. Watson?”

John turned slowly, terrified that he had finally taken leave of his senses. He closed his eyes, though, in a desperate bid to prevent the sweet delusion from fading. “It can’t be you,” he whispered. “It can’t be.”

“Why can’t it?”

A hand slipped beneath his chin, forcing him to lift his face. A thumb stroked over his cheek.

“Because you’re dead. You must be. They took you away and there was no more to be heard of you. I searched and searched and no one could tell me — ”

“Open your eyes.” The thumb brushed over his chin. “Please.”

John complied reluctantly, his breath catching when at last he saw… “Sherlock?” He choked back a sob and lifted a hand to trace over the lines of the handsome face, surrounded by dark, wavy hair that was still unfashionably long. The burns had healed some, but the scarring would remain on his brow and cheek. The bright, keen eyes and utterly kissable mouth were unchanged. “Sherlock — oh, god. It is you. It’s really you. But how… _how_?”

Sherlock gazed at John with wonder. “My brother. The man who evacuated me from Italy — he is my brother, Mycroft. He works for the government. He secreted me away to heal and to be debriefed. They had to keep me under wraps until after D-Day and after that, well, they found other things for me to do, out in the country.* All very secret. I wanted to…” Sherlock swallowed hard. “So many times, I wished I could contact you. When I heard you’d been wounded, I wanted to come to you, but…”

“No, but…your injuries…” John ran curious, assessing hands over Sherlock’s chest and down his arms.

Sherlock smiled at him, returning his hand to John’s cheek. “I had an excellent physician in Italy. My burns have healed very well, though I shall always bear the scars. The infection lasted only a few days, and I did not develop pneumonia. And you were right about the swelling on my spine — it needed only time. Even as they were loading me on the plane to return to England, I was beginning to be able to move my fingers.”

John opened and closed his mouth several times. There was so much he wished to say. So much he needed to ask. He reached up to brush an inky curl from Sherlock’s forehead, sweeping over scarred flesh as he did. “You’re alive,” he breathed.

“John, I have rooms nearby. Will you come back and sit with me a while?”

John nodded, still dazed. Sherlock tucked John’s hand into the crook of his elbow and they turned back toward Baker Street.

“Are we going to your headquarters?”

Sherlock chuckled. “No, that’s farther down; past the Marylebone Road. I took rooms of my own. I wasn’t in England often during the early part of the war, but when I was I required a quiet space to retreat to — to think.” He patted John’s hand. “My landlady is a very understanding sort. I did her a service many years ago and she’s given me a substantial discount on the rent.”

They walked in silence then, John clutching the arm beneath his fingers for fear it would suddenly disappear. He glanced up at his companion repeatedly, still not quite able to believe that Sherlock was there. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye, his mouth quirked in a crooked grin.

At length, Sherlock stopped before a black door labelled 221 and let them in. He helped John up the stairs, mindful of the leg and cane, and then into a small sitting room.

Sherlock released John’s arm and proceeded to remove his own long coat. John watched for a moment, mesmerized by Sherlock’s graceful movements and the fitness of his lean body in a well-tailored grey suit. Sherlock was alive. Not only alive, but well!

“Would you like to sit here by the fire?”

John nodded and moved awkwardly to the overstuffed red armchair Sherlock indicated. He fell into it, now suddenly very aware of the grinding pain in his thigh. He rubbed at the knotted muscle with a clenched fist, unreasonably angry at his body’s betrayal. And at such a time.

“Your leg is painful?”

“Hmmm.”

“But there is no injury.”

John stared for a moment, unable to prevent his lips from turning up. God, he had almost forgotten about that. “No, not a physical one, but damn it, it still hurts.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, ducking his head. “Tea?”

John looked up at Sherlock, now hovering over him. “No. No, please, can we…can we just talk?”

Sherlock’s features relaxed and he nodded, immediately settling into the armchair opposite John. He crossed his legs and undid the buttons on his suit jacket. “This is fortuitous, you know, John,” Sherlock started cheerfully. “I’ve just finally been dismissed to return to town and with your address in my hand — from a friend at the War Office. I was going to come and see you tomorrow.”

John’s blood ran cold, thinking how close he had come to…

Sherlock did not miss the changes in John’s demeanour. John knew he wouldn’t be able to hide anything from Sherlock’s perceptive gaze. He looked away in shame.

“Oh, god, John,” Sherlock said, visibly paling. “You weren’t…” He lurched forward in his seat and grasped both of John’s hands in his own. “I should have come sooner. I should have found a way.”

“It isn’t your fault. I understand that you were needed.”

“You needed me more.”

“And here you are.”

Sherlock’s brow creased. “You must promise me that you will not. You must not, John. Please.”

Tears rose unbidden to John’s eyes. “I wouldn’t,” he reassured Sherlock. “Not now.”

“You have too much to live for, John Watson.”

“Until this moment, I have had very little to live for, actually,” John corrected. He squeezed the fingers wrapped around his hand. “You have no idea how empty I have been, Sherlock. It’s not just the nightmares and the loneliness — my injuries mean I shall never practice again. Not really. What am I going to do? A surgeon whose hands shake? A soldier with a limp? What else am I fit for?”

“You’ll work with me, of course,” Sherlock said briskly. “It won’t be very long before Japan capitulates. Once that happens, life here really will begin to return to normal. London will rebuild, and with it her criminals.”

“Sorry, what?”

Sherlock stood and began to pace. John followed his progress, taking in the clutter and strange objects resident in the flat: stacks of old papers and books (many in foreign languages), maps and photographs tacked to the wall beside the propaganda posters, strange objects that looked very like medical specimens floating in jars on the coffee table, a stuffed raccoon, a skull on the mantel.

“My own recovery was not without…problems,” Sherlock admitted. “I have been in considerable pain, as you might imagine. And I had so little to think about at first — I was so desperately bored, John. I began taking more and more of the morphine to ease the way. I found, when I had mostly healed, that I could not do without it.”

“You were addicted.”

“I was,” Sherlock sighed. “It has taken me many months to deal with my habit, and the only thing that kept me going was this.” Sherlock waved his arms around him at the flat. “You see, while I was working in the country, I was considering how I wished to occupy myself in the years to come. After the war.” Sherlock gestured at a stack of documents near the fireplace. “There’s always full-time work for my brother, of course, but I can scarcely bring myself to deal with him in wartime; I doubt sincerely I would be able to tolerate him in peacetime.”

“What exactly does your brother do?” John interrupted, suddenly very suspicious.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s not important. Forget I mentioned it. In fact, most of what I’ve told you — well, I trust I don’t need to spell out for you that I probably shouldn’t have. And I know I can rely on you never to reveal what you know about me and my activities during the war.”

“Of course not!” John burst out. “What do you take me for?”

Sherlock stopped in front of John’s chair, dropping to his haunches. He cupped John’s cheek with a smile. “Rest easy, John. I have complete faith in you. Mycroft seemed quite sure of you, but there were others who required assurances, which I will give them without reservation. Though you may need to sign something…”

John relaxed into Sherlock’s touch. “I would never do anything to bring you harm, Sherlock, I…”

Sherlock stood abruptly, still deep in thought, and returned to wearing a track in the carpet. “And so I was left with a few unappealing options. I could go back to academia — dull — or I could apply my skills to civilian investigations.”

“Civilian…what?”

“Crime, John!” Sherlock cried. “I’ve been following the progress of a Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police. Intriguing fellow; far less tedious than many of his contemporaries. Too old to enlist, so he’s been patrolling London during the war. I believe he could benefit from my help.”

“You’re going to join the police.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock scoffed, sitting again with a flourish. “No, I will offer to… _consult_ for him. I’m sure he’ll be amenable once I’ve explained it to him. It could not be more perfect — I’ll be the world’s only consulting detective. Here in London.” He gestured to John with a broad smile. “With you. Your medical knowledge and battlefield experience would be very useful.”

“I’m not sure I understand all of this,” John said wearily, shaking his head. He sat forward in his chair, resting elbows on knees. “This has been such a shock; honestly, I don’t know what to make of it. It’s too much for me take in right now.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said quickly, looking a bit bewildered. “Right. Yes. I-I apologize. Of course you need time to think about everything. There is plenty of time for you to decide if you would be able to work alongside me in this venture.”

“Please listen to me, Sherlock,” John started, his voice husky. He reached across and placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee. “I would happily do whatever you asked of me if it meant I could be near you. But seeing you again — I don’t think you understand what it means to me.”

“Oh!” Sherlock’s features softened. “Oh, but I do.”

“Do you? Can you begin to know how you have imprinted yourself on my heart and mind? I’ve been able to think of nothing but you since we met. I prayed — me, prayed! — every night that you had survived, even if we were never to meet again. I just needed you not to be dead.” John sighed, head drooping. “The truth is — ”

“Yes?”

“The truth is…” John felt the words sticking in his throat. He had never been very good at this sort of thing.

“Yes?” Sherlock prompted again.

“The truth is…I fell in love with you,” John blurted. He sucked air into his lungs and carried on. “I know it was a matter of days, and you were my patient, but I have never felt like this before. Not for anyone.”

“I know.”

“I realize that you will always have a place in your heart for Victor, but — do you think it might be possible that you could make space there for me as well?” John rushed on. “I know this will be difficult. We’ll need to be careful, of course. And perhaps one day the laws will change! I don’t have any family besides my sister, but she won’t care. And I’m sure we can come up with something to tell Mycroft.”

“He knows,” Sherlock said softly.

“You said yourself that you had never experienced anything like this before. We are meant to be together, somehow. I know it. We could live here. Pretend to be flat mates,” John continued, not really listening. “I can share the rent and I can cook, a little. And I say we would need to be careful, but really I wouldn’t ask for…well, I know it’s a bit of a cheek to think you could love someone like me, so I wouldn’t expect anything, you know, _physical_ — ”

“John, I want to make love with you.”

“Perhaps in time, you might…” John’s brain stuttered to a stop and he lifted his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. “What did you say?”

Sherlock slid to his knees at John’s feet. John fell back against his chair as Sherlock’s hands splayed over his thighs. “I love you, Dr. John Watson. I wish for nothing more than to have you by my side until we’re both old and grey. I want to work with you, to live with you and to make love with you. Is that all right?”

John felt the colour rising to his face. “But I’m…old. I’m wounded and scarred and now this damn leg. Why would you want me?”

“John, you’re being absurd!” Sherlock teased, running fingers through the short, sandy hair. “You’re 28 years old! And look at me: I have burns running down the entire left side of my body, as well you know. I am permanently marred! I’ve had one relationship in the whole of my life — not only because I used to think sentiment was a weakness, but because I’d never found anyone, before Victor, who could tolerate me! Yet here you are. Handsome doctor and war hero, with the kindest and truest heart I have ever encountered. And the best of it is that you want me as much as I want you. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such happiness, but I will not let it pass me by.”

“But you — you’re amazing,” John breathed. He traced a thumb over Sherlock’s mouth. “Brilliant and fearless and so very, very beautiful.”

Sherlock nodded gently. “There. I think we’ve come to our agreement, then.” He stood once more and offered John his hand. “Would you be averse to beginning right this very minute?”

John took the offered hand and struggled to stand. “I don’t fully believe this is happening. I’m sure tomorrow I’ll wake in my wretched little room, alone and still missing you. But for now, yes — god, yes. Please.”

Sherlock dipped his head, brushing his mouth gently over John’s. John let his eyes drift closed. It was everything he’d imagined it would be and more.

Sherlock’s lush lips were insistent. They opened over his own, seeking entrance that was instantly granted. At the first touch of Sherlock’s tongue, John groaned and shuddered.

Sherlock drew away. “All right?”

“Yes, I…sorry. A bit new for me, is all.”

John’s hand was lifted to Sherlock’s mouth. Gentle kisses rained over his knuckles and then his palm and then his wrist. There Sherlock paused, lifting his eyes to John’s as he flicked the tip of his tongue over John’s pulse. John gasped at the unexpectedly erotic nature of the contact.

“We have time,” Sherlock whispered.

John nodded, unconsciously leaning into the other man’s body. He allowed himself to be enfolded, gratefully burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder as their arms wrapped about one another. He clung to Sherlock, smoothing his hands over the length of the strong back as Sherlock did the same.

“Is it so very different?” Sherlock asked.

“Hmmm?”

“A man’s body beneath your hands; fewer curves and more angles.”

“It is, but it’s…so good,” John replied. He lifted his face to place a kiss beneath Sherlock’s jaw. “And this is new.”

“Stubble?”

“Stubble,” John chuckled.

“Apologies.”

“No, I think I kind of like it.” John kissed Sherlock’s neck and nuzzled there a moment, revelling in the breathy sounds the taller man was making. “If this is a dream, I don’t want to wake.”

“No dream. I’m here with you and I am never letting you go.”

Sherlock turned his head and captured John’s mouth. What had been sweet and searching rapidly became heated. John drew on Sherlock’s bottom lip, grazing it with his teeth. Sherlock moaned his agreement.

“Mmmmmmy John.”

“I am,” John agreed, laying hands on every part of Sherlock’s body he could reach. “Sherlock, I don’t think — that is, I know we have time, but I don’t…I can’t wait.”

“Oh, god, neither can I.”

John could feel the evidence of Sherlock’s arousal against his belly; his own prick was making his trousers very uncomfortable.

“Bed?” Sherlock asked.

“God, yes.”

Sherlock led the way; John fell into step right behind him with one hand on his waist. They tumbled through the bedroom door in a tangle as Sherlock turned to take John in his arms once more. Sherlock bent to kiss him; John dug his fingers into dark curls and drew his lover down.

Kissing, John decided, was the best thing that had ever been invented. He’d always enjoyed it, but with Sherlock it was a revelation. They sucked and teased, nipping playfully and then thrusting with all the intention of acts yet to come.

So distracted was he that John lost track of Sherlock’s hands as he was rapidly divested of his clothing. By the time he realized what was happening, he was naked from the waist up and his trousers were undone.

“Oh,” he breathed, suddenly looking down.

“Problem?”

“You’re very good at that.”

“I’m highly motivated,” Sherlock purred. He trailed his fingers over John’s collarbone.

“Don’t…please…” John tried to catch Sherlock’s hand before it reached the starburst scar on his shoulder. It was large and still very unsightly.

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed. He bent to kiss the side of John’s neck. “There’s nothing about you I don’t want to see.”

“But…”

“Are you going to avert your eyes from _me_?” Sherlock asked, pulling back. He put enough space between them so that he could remove his jacket. He let it drop to the floor. He held John’s gaze as he removed his tie and then slowly undid the buttons of his simple white shirt.

John’s mouth became dry with each inch of skin revealed. He knew, of course, what Sherlock looked like. He’d viewed the man’s body clinically when he’d treated him. But this was so very different. Now he could want. And touch. And taste.

He groaned as the shirt slipped to the floor. “Oh, Sherlock…”

“Am I hideous?”

“Oh, my love — you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

“Then why will you not believe that I feel the same about you?”

They stared at one another, each moving to touch the other’s marks. John jumped as Sherlock’s fingers danced lightly over the puckered flesh on his shoulder.

“Have I hurt you?”

“No. No, it’s fine.”

“Good.”

John, for his part, traced the path of the flames down the side of Sherlock’s neck, over his shoulder and then along his ribcage. He had healed very well, but the burns were still an angry colour.

“Do they cause you pain?” he whispered.

“Some,” Sherlock breathed. “But it gets better with time.”

“I’m sorry,” John murmured. He pressed his lips to the ruined skin covering the upper curve of Sherlock’s left pectoral. “I wish I had been able to do more.”

“More? John, you saved my life.”

“Thank god.”

John used his tongue to trace the edge of the muscle, pulling back to regard the rosy brown nipple. He brushed a thumb over the bud and was gratified when it tightened at his touch. “Is this…is this something you enjoy?”

The high-pitched whine Sherlock emitted stoked the fire in John’s belly. He looked up briefly to see that his lover’s eyes had closed and lips parted.

“Oh, it is.” John stroked his fingers over the sensitive spot once more. “Well, then…”

He bent his head and sucked the flat nipple into his mouth. It was gratifying that some of his carnal knowledge, earned with the fairer sex, would still be of use. He was bound to be out of his depth in some areas. This, though, he understood. He teased and flicked at the warm peak with his tongue, and then drew on it firmly. He used his other hand to tweak the other nipple, causing Sherlock to squeak.

“John!”

John lifted his head and smiled at the glazed expression on Sherlock’s face. “Good?”

“Oh, fuck…”

John hummed his approval and proceeded to apply the same attention to Sherlock’s other nipple. By the time he’d tasted his fill, Sherlock was grinding against his hip, the bulge in his light woollen trousers begging to be touched. John happily obliged, dragging his fingers over the length of him. He sought Sherlock’s flies and made quick work of them, delving within.

At the first brush of his fingertips against Sherlock’s cock, John began to tremble. He had never touched another man sexually, and — while he wanted it more than he had been able to admit, even to himself — the newness of it was nearly overwhelming.

He allowed the foreskin to slide back at his direction, marvelling at the smoothness of it against the rigid shaft beneath. It was something like taking himself in hand, of course, and yet was so very different.

Sherlock’s lips met his brow. “Oh, my John. Yes…”

John continued to explore for a moment. Finally, though, he could bear the unseen no longer.

“Sherlock, my love, I need all of you. Please.”

Sherlock sighed and retreated, but only enough to kick off his shoes and shimmy pants and trousers to the floor.

“Oh, dear god.”

John’s body responded immediately to the sight of Sherlock’s nudity. His thighs were lean, but very muscular and covered with a light dusting of dark hair. The scarring down his left side did nothing to detract from the continued loveliness of his milky skin decorated with a scattering of delicate moles. And his penis…well, John knew he was hardly a connoisseur, but he had seen a few in his time. It was not overly large, but pleasantly symmetrical with a slight downward curve. The foreskin had already retracted enough that John could see the slit, and the bead of pre-come that had gathered there.

John smoothed hands over Sherlock’s narrow hips before returning to his task. He grasped Sherlock’s prick and began to stroke. “Tell me what you like,” he whispered, peppering kisses over Sherlock’s chest. “Show me.”

A hand joined his, long fingers circling his fist and pulling his hand toward the base of Sherlock’s cock. “Here,” Sherlock groaned. “Please.”

Sherlock’s head drooped, his brow coming to rest on John’s shoulder as he melted into John’s caress. He moaned and gasped and bucked his hips as John pleasured him. John whispered endearments into his ear — all the things he’d dreamed of being able to say.

After several minutes, fingers tightened around John’s hand, encouraging him to stop.

“I…can’t,” Sherlock panted. “Not without you.”

John’s own breathing was ragged and his body was begging for more. He kissed Sherlock hungrily and worked at removing shoes, socks and the uniform trousers Sherlock had already undone. His plain, white boxers followed and he eagerly pressed his newly exposed body against Sherlock’s heat.

They rubbed against one another, kissing haphazardly as they backed toward the bed. John stumbled when his knees hit the frame and he fell back, Sherlock falling with him.

“You are magnificent,” Sherlock growled, rubbing his hands over John’s biceps and shoulders.

John dug his fingertips into Sherlock’s back, pressing them chest to chest, and stretched up to suck a love mark into the delicate, pale skin of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock could not be still, though. He wiggled and squirmed until he had aligned his pelvis with…

“JESUS!”

John’s hips arched off the bed as Sherlock’s cock slid into place alongside his own.

“Oh, god, my love. Again. Again!”

Sherlock chuckled softly and pressed kisses into John’s hair as he rocked them together. John’s fingers moved immediately to Sherlock’s bottom, kneading and grasping the taller man’s body as tightly as he could to his own.

“This is — _christ_!”

Sherlock hesitated on the upstroke, trapping the head of John’s cock between John’s belly and Sherlock’s scrotum. He rubbed there, in short strokes, stimulating John’s fraenulum with his own bollocks until John was keening.

John came first, crying Sherlock’s name as his body seized. Sherlock continued to move, though it did not take long for him to follow and add his own release to the sticky, wet mess pressed between them.

Sherlock smoothed the sandy fringe from John’s brow with an adoring smile as John gasped for breath.

“I love you, Sherlock. I love you.”

“I love you, too, my John.” He pressed their lips together with a sigh before rolling to his side, taking John with him.

John snuggled into his lover’s warm body, delighting in the deft touch of Sherlock’s fingers in his hair. He pressed his cheek to Sherlock’s chest and began to drift.

“Need to sleep,” he mumbled. He clutched at Sherlock’s body. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed. “Rest now. I’ll be here when you wake. Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * At Bletchley Park


	6. Epilogue

“Sherlock!”

“Keep up, John!”

John rounded the corner of the alley and was brought up short by a pile of Blitz rubble. Cursing, he turned back the other way and dashed ahead. As he came upon another cross street, he spied the tails of Sherlock’s long coat as they disappeared into a doorway.

“Damn it!”

An hour later, they tumbled into Mrs. Hudson’s front hall and collapsed against the wall. They were short of breath from a cross-London foot chase and high on adrenalin.

221B Baker Street had been John’s home for less than a month, and already Sherlock had managed to get them into the middle of Scotland Yard's business: a smuggling ring, two missing prisoners of war and now a murder.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John wheezed.

“And you invaded Italy.”

John giggled and reached for Sherlock’s hand. He lifted it to his lips and pressed a tender kiss to the taller man’s knuckles. “Well, that wasn’t just me.”

Sherlock laughed, too, dropping his head back against the wall. “No, I suppose not.”

“And I’m not the one who went on a suicide mission to Budapest.”

“John…”

“Hush. No one around to hear me.” John looked up at the ceiling. “So why aren’t we back at the restaurant?”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway.”

“So what were we doing there?”

“Just passing the time,” he said, gazing down at John. “And proving a point.”

“What point?”

“You.”

John’s attention was drawn by a knock at the door. He turned back to look at his smirking partner in surprise.

“Well, go on,” Sherlock prompted.

John returned to the door and opened it; surprised to find Sherlock’s old friend — and manager of the restaurant they had visited that evening — waiting there.

“Sherlock rang me,” Andrew (real name Angelo, according to Sherlock, for an Italian grandfather; the man had changed it to avoid anti-fascist sentiment) said with a grin. “He said you forgot this.”

John stared at his cane in shock; he hadn’t even missed it. “Ah. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” the large man chuckled, touching his cap as he backed away. “Evening.”

John closed the door and turned back to where Sherlock had been, fully prepared to quiz him on his presumptuous behaviour, but the man was already halfway up the stairs.

“Told you you didn’t need it!” Sherlock called down to him.

John stared at the cane in his hand — his hand that no longer shook — and smiled to himself. Sherlock was so very often right, especially where John was concerned. He’d insisted from that very first night that he would “cure” John’s limp, and that the hand tremors would dissipate once John was “back in action.”

“Are you coming, John?” Sherlock shouted, as impatient as a child. “We have a killer to catch!”

“Coming, my love!” John called back, twiddling the cane in his hand as he climbed the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks! This was a bit of a whirlwind, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway :) Remember, if you ever want to ask me anything or tell me anything, you can find me on tumblr (as northray). Cheers!


	7. Cover art




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